


A Wrong Sort of Miracle

by Kyra_Neko_Rei



Series: In Which I Mistake Inktober For A Writing Challenge [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Legends, Self-Harm, Vader Versus Feelings, Vader is dramatic, and would be pissy about Imperials invading their queen's mausoleum regardless, does it count as major character death if she's already dead?, the handmaidens totally knew everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 23:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16185530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra_Neko_Rei/pseuds/Kyra_Neko_Rei
Summary: Darth Vader visits Queen Amidala's mortuary temple on Naboo. It is full of ghosts, except for the one he wants to see.(Playing With Knives/Incognito/Ghost/Ritualistic Sacrifice)





	A Wrong Sort of Miracle

 

In the mortuary temple of Queen Amidala of Naboo, there are ghosts.

 

The Queen’s handmaidens, for example, all dead by now: the first in an assassination attempt on the Queen, the last at the hands of Darth Vader, executed as a traitor and attempted terrorist; one in the Clone Wars proper, one in the massacre of Jedi on the night before the Empire was born; the rest in service to the Rebellion in one way or another.

 

Darth Vader hides his face behind his mask as he walks through the silent marble halls, lest one of them recognize him and give alarm--- _here is Anakin Skywalker, here is our Queen’s lover, her husband, the father of her child_. He does not know for certain what they knew, but he was with her often, saw her affections written on her face in public as well as in private, and it is simple for a close confidante like a bodyguard (or several) to put two and two together.

 

If they are angry at his presence, perhaps it is because he is Imperial, and the handmaidens, traitors and fools and Republic loyalists all, disapprove. The Queen died as the Empire was born, and did not have time to grant her support. It is the least of the reasons he wishes she had, but it would have meant much less trouble; her misinformed bodyguard-servants were _very_ good at their traitorous work.

 

They are ghosts, and their anger cannot touch him; he passes through them, disregards their anger and their fluttering presence and their whispers of condemnation.

 

The Queen of Naboo herself is more presence than ghost. She has never been as vividly here for him as her handmaidens are; she is a memory, a hint of presence, a half-remembered feeling of bright sunshine and wildflower scents and laughter, of fierce determination and defiant justice and armies with raised banners, of cleverness and softness, care and warmth.

 

There is no one living to see him kneel at the sarcophagus, rest his helmeted forehead against the stone.

 

For a moment he is back at her lifetime, teasing her in the meadow, talking to her by the lake, fighting with her in the arena, crying in her arms in the homestead on Tatooine, and then the vision escapes from him and takes him to Mustafar, his anger unleashed, her face full of fear, the hidden specter of what must have happened next---

 

Along the walls are arched windows, each with a portrait of her in colored glass. Coronation robes, Royal robes, Senatorial robes, armor. The last one, the nearest one, shows her in her Senate garb on the day the Empire was formed, the day traitorous rumors accused her of saying “So this is how liberty dies.”

 

The window shatters.

 

Shards of glass burst inward, outward, leaving her head framed by the arch, decapitated and bemused. The pieces freeze in midair, reverse course, gather themselves into a whirlwind, and attack Vader, slicing at the hated suit, the charred skin underneath. Blood drips down onto the marble floor, spatters across the sarcophagus, runs down his arms and legs and torso and puddles on the floor, splashes outwards as the maelstrom of glittering broken glass throws it in a wide arc around him.

 

The ghosts of the handmaidens watch in silence; the ghost of their Queen remains remote.

 

Some custodian or priestess will find this mess tomorrow. Perhaps now, ten years in, they will know to expect it on this day. The artist who makes the window portraits will be summoned and will craft a new one, or perhaps by now they have one already waiting.

 

There are legends, by now. Stories that Queen Amidala’s sarcophagus weeps blood on Empire Day. Rebels say she mourns for the Republic; Imperials say she spills all over again the blood she spilled in its service. Rebels say she was murdered by the Empire, turned from a living critic into a dead martyr; Imperials say she was murdered by the first Rebels, trying to stop them. In the morning, there will be thousands gathered outside, waiting to see the bloodied chamber; he imagines there will be agents among the devotees, taking keen notice of who says what.

 

Darth Vader leaves the temple with blood dried on his armor, headed for his shuttle and his chambers and attendant droids with the means to repair the shredded suit before all the Empire Day festivities tomorrow. The ghosts do not follow, except for the one who does.

 


End file.
